


His Unseen Choirs

by fivethingsunmixed



Series: Dark Justice AU [2]
Category: Persona 5
Genre: AU, AU: No Powers, AU: No Supernatural, AU: villain phantom thieves, F/F, F/M, M/M, Multi, basically everyone/everyone sorry, more pairings will get added, relationship vignettes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-07
Updated: 2018-02-04
Packaged: 2019-03-01 19:17:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13301478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fivethingsunmixed/pseuds/fivethingsunmixed
Summary: They have gone so far and done so much...but they are family. The only family that will ever understand. Vignettes examining how a serial killer phantom group interrelate and interlock.





	1. Haru

**Author's Note:**

> I’m drawing the titles from 4th Century ideas of angelology but I want to make one thing clear: scholars in those days had really clear notions of an angelic hierarchy. I’m naming the chapters based not on the hierarchy but based on the angelic choirs purpose.  
> Also, this contains almost every possible permutation of pairing between the Phantom Thieves, gay and straight, either in text or subtext. That it. That’s your one warning. Leave noooooow.  
> (Also, yeah, I am already planning a long form fic to follow this one. Details may or may not be dumped at the end of the fic depending on when that happens.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The woman behind the bar has the loveliest smile you will ever see, until you say the wrong word. Then you see the violence in her eyes. A day in the life of Haru Okumura, disgraced daughter and violent woman.

**The Choir of Powers**

 

**Futaba**

When the night is slow, Haru goes to the back and checks up on Futaba.

“Have you been eating, dear?” she asks, as she cleans up Futaba’s mess.

“Work necessary. Safety necessary,” parrots Futaba.

“I’ll take that as a ‘no’, then, dear,” sighs Haru. “Shall I get you some noodles?”

Futaba, at her workspace, the only clean area in her room, types for a few seconds, then nods, stiffly.

“I’ll go get your food.”

Singing softly to herself, (Futaba doesn’t like not knowing where people are when they’re in her space, so Haru always sings, or hums, or makes noise of some kind), Haru boils some water and prepares the flavored ramen which is the only thing Futaba will eat. She also chops up some fresh vegetables from the refrigerator and adds them, just to make sure Futaba gets some actual nutritional content.

“Here you go, love.”

Futaba makes a face.

“Green things.”

“Yes, love,” says Haru, grinning wickedly, “Vegetables. Mushrooms. Aaaaaaand, because you’re my favorite, some chillies.”

That makes Futaba smile.

Haru then leans over.

“Do I get a kiss?”

Futaba blushes a little, and kisses Haru quickly on the cheek, before digging into her noodles.

Futaba doesn’t touch much. She doesn’t sleep in anyone’s bed. But she gives kindness and love when it’s due, and Haru knows that that is all she can manage and for Haru, that is enough.

She locks the door behind her, and smiles slowly to herself. Haru used to be a trapped princess in a cage; now Futaba is her princess to protect. How strangely the world turns.

 

**Makoto**

Makoto sits at Haru’s bar every night. Sometimes she’ll be in all leathers; sometimes in tight, form-fitting clothes. Always, her eyes will be scanning the crowd with a scowl on her face.

“If you keep making that face, it will get stuck that way,” teases Haru.

Something akin to a smile crosses Makoto’s face.

“Would you rather I got hit on by the customers?”

“Of course not,” replies Haru, flirting, “Then I might get jealous.”

An emotion flickers in Makoto’s face, and her eyes flick to Ryuji.

“Oh,  _ you _ ,” says Haru, “Nobody is jealous of  _ that _ . Don’t be silly.”

Her mouth twists; anybody else would find it impossible to see it for the small, grateful smile it is, but Haru knows Makoto.

“Good,” says Makoto.

“Just don’t slack off, okay?” jokes Haru, “I can’t handle  _ all _ of these  _ rowdy boys _ by myself…” she flutters her eyelashes at a customer who has been trying to ask for a drink, and goes to make it, knowing that the scowl will be back on Makoto’s face.

Flirting is part of Haru’s job, just as, occasionally, sleeping around is part of Ann’s job. Nobody likes it. They tolerate it, for the moment, and relish when the chance for violence is allowed.

It makes Haru wonder, sometimes, as she sees the dark look in Makoto’s eyes, if, maybe, if they were normal, they might, she doesn’t know,  _ enjoy _ seeing one another flirt with another person. Relish the opportunity to allow their family to grow.

She dismisses it, then. Family is, after all, the only thing that matters.

It took the death of her father to teach her that.

 

**Yusuke**

The club is closed, and Haru is mopping up the sticky floor when Yusuke appears from the shadows. She is far too practiced with his silent movements to jump, or shout in surprise, so she merely turns and states,

“Why do you  _ always _ do that?”

He is silent; she never really expects an answer. Yusuke always seems to be listening to something else, something other, so Haru smiles at him, and sees him give a tiny smile back, and she returns to her mopping.

In a second Yusuke has tugged the mop from her hands and it has tumbled, with a clatter, to the floor.

“Yusuke,” she says, “I need to mop the floor…”

In a moment, he has swooped her down into a dramatic, romantic dip, and her heart thumps.

“Dear Haru,” he whispers, “Why do we let you do such menial tasks?”

“Oh,  _ Yusuke _ ,” she replies, “ _ Somebody _ has to.”

“Not you,” he replies, “Your hands are for knives and axes and daggers and bloodshed. Not mops. Your hands are for artistry, not  _ chores _ .”

She smiles again at him, knowing that this is how Yusuke shows affection.

“But then the floor will get sticky, and we won’t make any money,” she replies.

“Gentleheart,” he replies, “You are far too magical for such work,” and he kisses her right there, like the little girl in her heart has always wanted to be kissed, like a princess. Akira kisses her like she’s a goddess, but Yusuke kisses her like she is a being of pure art itself. Akira kisses her like she hasn’t changed since she first killed a man, but Yusuke kisses her - and yes, makes love to her - like the blood she sheds is the most potently beautiful thing about her.

She still hasn’t decided which she prefers.

 

**Ann**

It’s twilight, and Ann is sitting at her makeup table, gently applying her rouges and lipsticks and eyeshadows while Haru, still naked on the bed, watches, fascinated.

Ann’s hair is gathered in a singly ponytail behind her head as she works, darkening her eyes to smouldering, reddening her lips to sinful, paling her skin and reddening her cheeks until she looks the very definition of untouchable and wantable all at once.

Haru prefers her without the makeup, but she can’t deny that Ann with the makeup on is delectable.

When all the makeup is applied, Haru, still naked, stands, smiling, and goes to her, and gently gathers her hair into a refined bun at the nape of her neck, twisting and twining until it looks perfect. Haru will then get dressed while Ann watches, something wanton and lascivious in her eyes.

When Haru is fully clothed, Ann will motion her over, and gently apply blood red lipstick to her mouth. Always blood red. Their princess may wear pink, or yellow, or green, or flowers, but her lips, like her smile, like her eyes, must always betray, to them at least, her truth.

They never use words.

For Ann and Haru, they are long past the point of ever needing words.

 

**Ryuji**

Ryuji nods to Haru when he begins work, watching out as their bouncer for things that look subtly ‘wrong’. Ryuji has more than once commented that the only reason he feels comfortable doing so is knowing that Makoto and Haru - the most capable and the most openly violent - are on his side.

One night, Ryuji starts a fight with some plains clothes gang members, trying to get them out. While Makoto goes to help him, Haru notes - thanks to Futaba in her ear - some other members at the bar about to head over.

She wraps her left arm around one body, with a dagger at its throat and whispers in its ear “Please don’t move; it would be  _ ever _ so rude, don’t you think?”

She feels it gulp, and hears a voice nearby yell “ _ holy fuck the bartender is in it too _ ?”

Before another two gang members can move to target Ryuji, she picks up a pistol she keeps beneath the bar and  _ bang, bang _ the two members have bullets in their throats.

“Now,” she whispers to the members she’s holding, “Why don’t you tell me who you are, and what you’re doing here?”

Later, when the club is emptied, she’ll help Makoto tend to Ryuji’s wounds. And he’ll say, as Haru gently kisses a bandaged wound and Makoto strokes his bleached blonde hair, “I’m glad I’ve got you two watching my back.”

 

**Akira**

“How was the night?” he asks, removing his cufflinks.

She shrugs.

“Scuffle with some gang members. Apparently their leader wants this property. I think we taught them enough of a lesson that he’ll reconsider.”

Akira smiles, turning around, waistcoat gone now, shirt open.

“Added to your collection of ears, did you, love?” he teases. Haru chuckles.

“Of course not. First infraction.”

“Ah, love. You are so much less violent than we give you credit for.” An odd, solemn expression crosses Akira’s face, as it does every now and then.

“What’s wrong, dear?” she asks, reaching out to stroke his hair.

“A fey mood, love. Nothing more. Just…a fey mood.”

She stares into his dark eyes, that once promised freedom, even through a river of blood, and part of her wonders how much all of them have changed, but most of her, if she is honest, no longer cares.

She is happy. Her family is happy. If they are safe, the world can hang.

Hungrily, she presses her mouth and body to his, trying to make him ignore whatever dark thoughts eat at his mind.

It is, as ever, her job to protect the fold.


	2. Futaba

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Futaba sits in her room far away from the vice and the crowds and the noise and the sin, where she is safe. If she were alone, it would be a tomb. But she is never alone for long.

**The Choir of Virtues**

**Haru**

From her position behind the bar, and with her wiretaps everywhere, Futaba hears the tiny gasp Haru gives just before Yusuke’s mouth covers hers, as well as the soft noises she makes as his lips find her ear and his fingers dance under her skirt.

She sees what passes between her and Ann, even if she doesn’t understand it, and sees what Haru does to Ann to make her gasp and cry out, as well as the incomprehensible noises Ann calls.

She hears Haru’s tiny hitches of breath as Akira’s teeth score bruises on her neck and notices the imperceptible pauses that are Akira - their leader and beloved - waiting to make sure everything is okay, before he undoes her dress.

When Haru comes in the next day, humming as always, Futaba asks dryly, “Did you have fun yesterday?”

And Haru laughs merrily.

“Oh, Futaba, silly girl, you saw perfectly well that I did,” and Haru gives her a warm kiss on the cheek.

Haru, Futaba knows, doesn’t mind if Futaba watches. Futaba can barely stand kisses from those she loves best, still doesn’t feel she deserves warmth and passion. So she lives vicariously through her family, and wonders if one day she’ll be healed enough to feel such things.

 

**Makoto**

Makoto’s been in a mood all day, and nobody can really figure out why. Ryuji’s offered to take her out practicing, and she declined; Haru offered tea, she threw it at the wall; Ann offered to talk, Makoto slammed the door in her face. Even Akira is puzzled.

Not Futaba, though, who sends an email politely requesting Makoto’s aid in helping her set up a computer, and there’s an unspoken rule among the seven Phantom Thieves: whatever shit you have going on, you  _ do not _ fuck with Futaba.

When Makoto arrives at Futaba’s workroom, Futaba hands her a file filled with chapter and verse on Sae Nijima’s whereabouts and contact information, as well as what she’s been doing with herself for the last five years, and guarantees that Sae Nijima is indeed, safe. She also promises that she can set up a meeting if Makoto wants, or an app to keep Nijima-san safe, or literally anything Makoto wants.

Makoto is stoic for a grand total of five seconds before breaking down into tears, and Futaba calls in the rest to help, because Futaba can unravel what makes Makoto tick, but tears is above her paygrade. 

(Futaba never learns if Makoto goes to see Sae; she does know that she goes and sees Sojiro that week for advice. Futaba approves.)

 

**Yusuke**

“ _ Inari _ !” yells Futaba, furious on a Sunday evening, “I  _ need you _ !”

“Yes?” he says, strolling through the empty bar into her room, shirtless, “What  _ is _ it you rude, uncultured vulture of a girl?”

Futaba grins. Haru might appreciate Inari’s sweet words and romance, and she  _ knows _ that Akira loves Yusuke’s handsomeness, and she’s even caught Ryuji swooning over Yusuke’s grace, but Futaba loves a good argument, and nobody gives her that like Inari. Grace, handsomeness? Inari could look like a board and she’d still love him for his clipped words and love of verbal sparring.

“I made this,” she says, handing over a tablet, “I wanna know how it works.”

He stares at her blankly, eyebrow raised.

“For what, exactly?”

“For art!” she chirps, adding a stylus, “Go ahead! Have fun! Design some cool new tattoos for us!”

He frowns, and settles on her bed (still shirtless - Inari would not be Inari if he did not insist on the world admiring him) and starts sketching. As he sketches, the frown fades and a look of concentration begins.

“Dear Futaba,” he says.

“Don’t you  _ fucking _ dear Futaba me,” snarls Futaba, “I spent  _ years _ training you not to sweet talk me like you do the rest, don’t start now.”

“Wretched beast,” he begins again.

“Better.”

“I do believe you have made a perfectly excellent sketching program.”

Futaba beams.

“One problem.”

She falters.

“I don’t like sketching on ipads. I find it repellant. So it will be utterly useless to me.”

“Oh  _ come on _ !”

 

**Ann**

Ann calls Futaba ‘her guardian angel’, and it irritates Futaba.

“Hey, don’t call  _ me _ that,” she grumbles, “Call the technology that.”

Ann still smiles radiantly, and gives her a hug Futaba didn’t ask for nor want, but that makes her blush radiantly.

More than once, Ann will go off with somebody who the group need - or want - or require - dead. Whether because they irritate them, or they’re dangerous, or they’re in the way. And Ann will take them into a backroom that looks like a comfy bedroom and play all  _ femme fatale _ . And when that happens, Yusuke will be on standby, and Futaba will be watching.

See, Ann will be naked. All she’ll have is maybe some poison needles under her nails - daggers hidden in the room - a pistol in her brassiere - against a bigger, stronger opponent.

If something goes down - and it has - it’s Futaba’s job to let Yusuke know, and Yusuke’s job to dispose of the problem quickly.

Futaba does this carefully. She’s gotten good at judging when Ann needs help and when she doesn’t.

Once, when it was too close for comfort, Ann came up to Futaba afterwards, face hard as stone, and told her, “You’re saving my life. Every day, that you’re back there, you’re saving my life.”

And Futaba looked at Ann and just said,

“You save mine every day I’m here.”

 

**Ryuji**

There’s not much Futaba can do for Ryuji; she sends messages to Haru and Makoto, but they usually notice trouble pretty quick without her. Ryuji is fun to watch work - he takes a visceral pleasure in his violence - but unfortunately that’s not Futaba’s job, so she steals snatches of glances, anyway, and compliments Ryuji when he comes in the next morning. Ryuji ruffles her hair, and offers her a pack of pocky. Ryuji is tough and grim, but deep down likes to think of Futaba as this cute girl who needs looking after. More than any other member except maybe Akira, Ryuji’s the one who likes to spoil Futaba.

The two often settle down on off days and watch silly movies and eat junk food and complain, and Futaba will lean her head against Ryuji and sleep, and Ryuji will stroke her hair and tell her that one day, one day, everything will be fine for her.

Futaba will look at him, puzzled, and say it’s fine now, and Ryuji will look solemn and strange, and Futaba will realize, as she always does, that she doesn’t ever really  _ see _ Ryuji smile, except in old photographs. It makes her think of stars slowly dying out and leaving only darkness.

“Of course everything is fine now, Futaba-chan,” Ryuji will say, and gently kiss her forehead, “Of course it is.”

 

**Akira**

“Futaba-chan,” he says one afternoon, “I’m going to market. Would you like to come?”

“I’m  _ working _ ,” she snaps.

“Futaba-chan,” replies Akira, and he says it in a tone that is soft and gentle; almost like the tone he uses when he’s seducing Ann and Haru, “If you come with me and put up with the crowds, I’ll take you to Akihabara after.”

Futaba shoots up, bright-eyed and happy, and is grabbing his hand.

“You’ll need to put on pants and shoes first,” he says.

“Oh, yeah, gimme a sec,” and dressing is quick, Haru is always making sure her clothes and space are neat and tidy, even if she doesn’t care, “Let’s go, let’s go. What do we need?”

“Things for curry,” says Akira with a smile, “And things for tiny crackers,” he tweaks her nose and she giggles.

Today, he’s not in all his club finery; a t-shirt and jeans, and that’s fine. Akira in t-shirt and jeans is for Futaba, just like Yusuke shirtless is for her, or Ryuji’s dying star half-smile is for her. Futaba gets to see the little miracles that everyone misses. That’s her joy, and her sorrow.

They come home laden with gifts, and Akira makes curry, and they all eat dinner at the table.

Even Futaba.

Akira holds her hand, and reads the accounts with the other, while Ann teasingly feeds him and gets gravy on his cheek, and Ryuji and Makoto keep trying to add ginger to each other’s curry when the other isn’t looking, and Yusuke and Haru try and make drawings in the gravy and for a blissful few moments, it feels like a miracle; they feel just like a normal family.


	3. Makoto

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She sits at the bar and scowls, iron on her face and over her heart. She’s never sure if she’s irritated or overjoyed that seven people can see through the iron and reach into her chest. Niijima Makoto and the ties that bind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last of the pre-finished chapters. I can't guarantee when the next ones will be out, since I'm back at uni now, so I'll just say that I will aim to get this finished and have the next fic planned out by the time my MA ends (start of March).

**The Choir of The Throne**

 

**Haru**

Makoto likes it when Haru flirts with her - the iciness around her heart always makes her feel...apart, somewhat. Haru’s flirtations are part of what makes her feel less icy, more warm. Her fingertips tingle when Haru smiles, and she can almost feel the swoop of Haru’s long eyelashes. It’s a giddy feeling, like being a teenager again.

But then Haru flirts with someone else, and Makoto is grim and bitter again, missing the warmth of Haru’s giggle and her smile.

Later, Haru catches someone about to knife Makoto in the back while Makoto is threatening a punk who tried to deal drugs without Akira’s permission, and Haru presses a knife sharply to their neck.

“Please don’t kill me,” he whimpers.

“I don’t know,” whispers Haru in a low tone, “You tried to stab my friend. I rather like her. And I rather like the idea of you bleeding out in an alley somewhere. Shall we try that? Or perhaps...” Her knife travels lower, while her voice remains the same pitch and her grip on his hair the same tension, “...we’ll merely remove your hands that tried to stab her and cauterize the wounds. I think I could sleep quite well to the memory of your screams.”

Her voice, low and soft, makes Makoto’s fingertips tingle again.

That night, after they’ve disposed of the bodies, Makoto pushes Haru against a wall and kisses her hard, ignoring the blood spattered across her clothes and skin, and feels Haru wind her fingers through Makoto’s hair. Haru tastes of blood and insanity and something akin to rose petals.

Yes, this is  _ much _ better than flirting.

 

**Futaba**

Makoto doesn’t  _ know _ how Futaba knows her, other than that Futaba is the other member of the group who is somewhat  _ apart _ , and maybe because of that, they think in similar ways. Or, you know, not.

When Makoto wakes up one morning after fell dreams, certain that somebody - her sister - is looking for them again, Futaba gives her chapter and verse on where her sister is. But Futaba - innocent, darling, sweet Futaba, who is always  _ apart _ from the bloodshed - thinks Makoto misses her sister.

Makoto weeps then. She wishes that, like Futaba, she had the heart to keep a family. She doesn’t. Her heart beats, but the warmth in is only for the family she has here, not for any of her blood.

“Futaba has Sojiro,” Akira reminds her, “We’re not her only family.”

Makoto goes through and finds that Sae has been in protective custody ever since their assassination of Shido, and that there is no indication she is coming after them.

Still, she talks with Sojiro. He’s mentioned nothing and nobody asking after them. He is scowling, as always.

“You think I’d let some punk find my daughter?” he demands. Makoto smiles, or something like it.

“No, I suppose not.”

She thanks Futaba, later, as she always does; by getting her whatever weird gadgetry she requires this time, and helping set it up, and putting up with all her demands. It’s fine, if it’s Futaba.

 

**Yusuke**

“Ah, Makoto, our most darling Queen,” starts Yusuke the following morning as Makoto finishes her breakfast.

“Whatever it is, no,” replies Makoto. Yusuke smiles thinly in response.

“You don’t know what I’m about to ask.”

“You’re sweet talking, so it’s a no.”

“You’re going on a ride.”

Makoto scowls at him. All right, yes, she is - but she  _ hates _ it when people state her intentions so blandly.

“I do apologize, dearest - but you are dressed for it.”

Makoto sighs. Yusuke’s right, of course - her scarf, her riding leathers, she  _ is _ , but she still doesn’t like it. She prefers to seem enigmatic, even to her close family.

“What is it?”

“I was wondering if I could join you. I have an itch to design and I thought joining you on your morning sojourn might…”

“Put on another jacket, grab my spare helmet and be ready to move in five.” snaps Makoto, already tired of Yusuke’s pretty speech, “And  _ stop _ talking like a romantic hero.”

Yusuke grins now, genuinely. Like Futaba, Makoto only appreciates Yusuke for his arguments.

-

Two hours later, the two return. Yusuke’s hair is in disarray from the helmet, and his cheeks are red from adrenaline; Makoto similarly looks as close to joyous as she ever gets. Both dump the helmets even before the bike comes to a stop in the garage.

“Is it always like that?” Yusuke asks breathlessly, “The wind, the salt air, everything?”

“Most times, yeah,” replies Makoto, trying to sound matter of fact and failing, “Actually…”

She doesn’t get the rest of the sentence out, because before she can even dismount the bike, Yusuke has grabbed her by the scarf and twisted her around to kiss her, full and passionately on the mouth. Normally, Makoto would slap him off; instead she turns so that she is facing him and kisses him hard, tearing at his shirt so that the buttons rip.

When they come up for breath, Yusuke says breathlessly, “I am going to make you the  _ best _ tattoo ever.”

A dry voice then says, “If you guys have sex on the bike, I’m going to puke.”

Both jump. It’s Ryuji, shirtless and clearly interrupted in the middle of doing weights.

Makoto throws a helmet at him.

 

**Ann**

“You might have told me we were going to a lesbian bar,” grumbled Makoto.

“Oh, hush,” replied Ann, “It was worth your expression.”

Makoto scowls a little deeper, and looks at Ann. Her makeup is more subtle today - just the red lipstick - and her outfit is black leather pants and a low cut red bustier that outlines her curves and draws attention to her cleavage. Ann is the distraction; Makoto is the firepower today.

Makoto sighs. She knows everybody back at their home thinks she’s beautiful, but occasionally she thinks it wouldn’t be so bad to look like Ann, or to have Haru’s grace, or even Futaba’s giddy cuteness. All of the other members fawn over them; Makoto is...well, not fawning material.

“You’re brooding,” says Ann without opening her eyes, as she drinks something lurid pink and garnished with an umbrella, cherries and an edible flower.

“Yes, I was thinking that cocktail of yours looks like a crime against decent cocktails everywhere.”

Ann lets out a throaty laugh, the neon blue lights of the club highlighting her cheeks and throat and breasts.

“Of course you were. You were thinking about my cocktail while you stared off in the distance scowling. You know,” she says, with the sudden change of topic Makoto has gotten used to in ten years, “nobody makes me laugh like you do. Not even Yusuke or Akira. Or the girls. And nobody is as smart as you. Or as striking.”

“Striking?” replies Makoto dryly, “Is that a nice way of saying ugly?” and then she bites her tongue. Ann, always Ann, if she says the truth it always comes out with Ann.

Ann winds an arm around her waist and whispers in her ear.

“If you want, I can prove to you tonight  _ exactly _ how striking I find you...but first, I notice that our host has sent some...mmm... _ friends _ to help.”

Makoto smiles then.

“Maybe your cocktail has a use after all. Wait,” and she carefully removes the umbrella, noting that it has a cherry speared on the end. Meeting Ann’s eyes directly, she slowly removes the cherry with her teeth, and notes Ann’s violent grin and hitch of breath.

“Well,” says Ann, “Let’s start the party.”

Then she hurls the remains of her lurid pink cocktail into the eyes of a waiting gang member, just as Makoto turns to slam the point of the cocktail into one’s waiting ear.

 

**Ryuji**

Makoto herself isn’t sure when she and Ryuji came to their ‘agreement’. It’s certainly not all that different from the agreement that all the others share, if a bit more formalized - more like the relationship Haru, Ann and Akira have than Yusuke has with any of the girls, or Yusuke and Ryuji have (though even Makoto is unsure exactly what that is).

It goes like this:

Twice a week, Ryuji and Makoto go out to the garage and work out together. Chin-ups, press-ups, weight lifting, the works. Makoto helps Ryuji with his stretches; Ryuji spots Makoto for her weights. They work together to build up a solid sweat, and then there will be a friendly spar.

Friendly is the key word; both know if they  _ wanted _ to hurt the other, the other would be dead and bleeding, with or without weapons. But they don’t; this is just for fun.

Then, something will happen; Makoto will pin Ryuji to the floor; Ryuji will trap Makoto’s wrists against his chest; they’ll end up in a messy tangle of limbs; and somewhere, their mouths will meet.

It’s not as if Makoto  _ likes _ Ryuji (at least, that’s what she told herself the first five times this happened). He’s rude, obnoxious, and unscholarly. But his mouth is hot and warm and his hands are rough on her skin, and he seems to have an uncanny knowledge of exactly how to touch her to make her moan.

After a while, Makoto stopped pretending she didn’t like Ryuji. Started admitting to herself that he has his own charm, his own attractiveness.

Sometimes, he’ll call her beautiful. Sometimes, he’ll even smile, as if nothing has changed since the day he first took a heart in his bare hands.

Then they’ll get up, have a shower, get dressed, and Ryuji will be grim and dark again, and Makoto will run a hand through his damp, bleach blonde hair and smile, wistfully into his eyes. He’ll catch her wrist and press a kiss to her palm, unsmiling. Always unsmiling.

 

**Akira**

“Hey, I have a job for you,” says Akira one day, sitting at the bar after closing time.

Makoto, who is busy applying antiseptic to some cuts on her knuckles, looks up.

“A job…?”

“Mmmm. Futaba got some intel on a mob boss who has been sniffing around here. We want to make sure she is... _ discouraged _ .”

Makoto turns her attention to her wounds, letting her eyelashes delicately hide her gaze.

“Discouraged permanently?”

“Oh, nothing so major as that,” replies Akira graciously. There’s a flick; he’s lit a cigarette.

“No smoking.”

“As the proprietor, I think I get to break rules when I see fit,” he replies dryly. Makoto reaches out, snatches the cigarette from him and stubs it out. Akira chuckles darkly, as if unsurprised.

“You were saying?” Makoto says, returning to her knuckles. Akira takes her hand and starts winding a bandage around it.

“The gang leader is in Shinjuku, one of the seedier parts. You’ll need to take Ann with you as distraction.”

Makoto looks up at him, eyebrows raised.

“Surely I should take Ryuji? Ann is great at covert work, but in a tussle, you know you want Ryuji by my side.”

There’s something in the glint of Akira’s eyes, a spark of mischief.

“No, trust me. It’s Ann you want with you. I can’t spare Haru for this,” and later, Makoto will chide herself for not noticing that odd phrasing.

“Fine. We’ll deal. We always do.”

-

A couple of days later, Akira comments, without any major bile,

“I noticed you were in Ann’s room last night.”

To which Makoto replies,

“Well that’s what you get for not warning me that you were sending me to a lesbian bar.”

His laughter warms her, and follows her all the way to the garage, and puts an uncommonly happy smile on her face for the day.


	4. Yusuke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In his attic loft, Yusuke surrounds himself with the portraits he paints of his close friends and family. Most of them look more like monsters than like people.

**The Choir of Ophanim**

**Haru**

His portrait of Haru is done in delicate pinks, reds and purples, as if he had been composing a bouquet of roses rather than a painting of a sadist. It looks like a bouquet as well; a bouquet starkly outlined in black, so that it resembles less a painting, more a stain glass piece. Viewed straight on, the painting is merely an attractive jumble of petals and flowers, colliding with one another.

Viewed from a very specific angle, though, it is a young girl, dressed all in pinks and purples, blushing as she holds a rose in her hands, the red of the rose complimented by the red of her cheeks. It took Yusuke months to get the composition correct.

Opposite this portrait is an earlier portrait of Haru, based off of the same sitting. She holds a rose in it, but rather than being depicted in pinks and purples, it is in dark blues and crimsons. She is not blushing or smiling gently, but smirking cruelly. The light in it is yellow and makes her face seem wan, sickly even. The rose is emphasized, not for its beauty, but for the thorns digging into her flesh.

It took Yusuke months before he realized what bothered him about the early painting; it showed only a facet of Haru. After completing the second painting, he felt more satisfied. Haru, after all, was sadistic, and he loved her for it, but she was also maidenly, and gentle, and matronly. Without those features, Haru would not be Haru, and it was injustice to art to not show all that a person had to offer.

He is already starting work on a third piece in which he hopes to show all of Haru’s facets. Her eyes are gently closed in it, and she is kissing him; kissing his decapitated head.

  


**Futaba**

He wrestled for months with whether or not to show Futaba in a piece. In the end, he decided to go for it.

He painted her in soft, fading golds and oranges, holding in her hands a set of tools - delicate, tiny screwdrivers, huge wrenches, wiring - as if they were a bouquet of flowers, blooming in her arms and along her hair, where her goggles sat, all painted in a similar, flat style, fading through colors as if an internal light was shining through them.

He wanted to show her beauty. He wanted also, to show her innocence.

In curly writing beneath, he had inscribed ‘Wretched Beast’.

She had laughed when she’d seen it, and he’d been offended, until he realized that the laugh was delighted, not derisory. She loved that he’d taken his most common insult and added it to a piece of art that made her look like a delicate, elegant lady.

He is already half-done with another, one where her head is framed by multiple halos of binary and wiring and mechanics. He hopes she loves it just as much, and he hopes it makes her laugh again.

He does, however, wonder if she will approve of the strange green tinge he’s giving her this time; as if she is less human and more machine. In his mind, she often is; not as an insult, you understand, but as some strange sort of child-machine-goddess. Something to be adored, and worshipped, but never understood.

  


**Makoto**

Makoto’s portraits are nude and he is already displeased enough with them to have altered her features and sold them on. Having been on a bike ride with her, he wants one of her nude straddling the bike, though he has been having a hard time getting her to say yes.

(Privately, he knows she’s okay with it, and is mostly giving him the run around for the sake of it, which he allows, slightly bitterly; he would hope that by now she would know he thinks her beautiful.)

In another corner of his attic, is the tattoo that he is designing for her. Every tattoo that graces the skin of the group is by his design, from the flower-bedecked skull on Haru’s right shoulder to the thunder god and pirates on Ryuji’s arms. He has yet to design one from Makoto. He is sketching something for her torso; a design that will make her look as if armor has been bolted onto one side of her body, and on the side, as if, beneath her skin, the pistons of a motorbike are appearing.

He isn’t sure where his tattoo ideas emerge. They seem to come from a muse without; as if they already existed before his pen touched the canvas, and he was merely putting them into form. As if, in a way, he is bringing to light the souls of his family.

After riding a bike with Makoto he understands now; the bike is her freedom; it is where she is most at home; where she is free.

On another pad, he is designing decals for her bike. Most of them are in blue, and he’s not sure why; blue just  _ feels _ right.

He hopes she’ll let him paint that picture of her on the bike nude; to capture her, happy, carefree, in her element and beautiful would be a sight to see.

  


**Ann**

_ Ann _ .

She is probably his favorite subject to paint.

When he first decided he wanted to paint her, he wanted to paint her nude, innocent, beautiful, to capture the emotion he felt toward her, a strange, sudden surge of passion, as he’d never felt since he’d first laid eyes on the “Sayuri”. Now that he knows her better, he paints her in her element: clothed in velvets and silks, languid on the bed; casual in cotton underwear, reading a book idly; or, from memory, splattered in gore and holding a knife, teeth bared, holding down a victim, getting to work viciously, hair pulled back, face taut with shadows.

He doesn’t actually like painting her nude; Ann is at her most revealing when he can paint only her face, showing the deepness of her eyes. When her clothes are removed, the mask comes down, and her becomes uninterested.

Once, Ann came to his studio naked and suggested a different project; to paint her skin. He worked for hours painting a beautiful sunset on her back, and then a lovely lily pond on her belly, and then the curvature of the moon on her thighs; and she giggled with each brush stroke. The photos he took still hang, her as his canvas. He hasn’t the courage to ask for it again; he thinks, privately, that it was so very special he should wait. Let her come to him.

When it was over, she reached out a hand covered in a kaleidoscope of butterflies and gently drew it along his face, smearing the paint and smudging his art on him, and he shuddered, and as he looked in her eyes he thought, for a moment, he felt once again that deep, overwhelming passion he’d felt when he first saw her.

Then she kissed him, and the illusion vanished.

  


**Ryuji**

Like the rest, he struggles to capture Ryuji, at least partially because of the Agreement.

Ryuji has always had trouble sitting still, so Yusuke doesn’t paint him from life; he takes photographs and paints from those, as well as his memory. None of them do justice. He’s gotten to the point of experimenting.

Here is a nude of Ryuji composed of geometrical blocks forming a human shape; it still does not capture the essence of Ryuji’s strength, and it lacks the form of Ryuji’s movement. Here is an Impressionist painting that shows him going through an aikido kata in swirls of painted light, yet it does not capture the sincerity in his eyes or the heat of his voice.

Frequently, Yusuke will think of something new, so will call Ryuji, and he’ll come up; he’ll have his camera ready, and start taking photos of Ryuji sitting; sometimes, he might manage to startle a laugh out of him, or capture a brief, flash of a smile. He might then get Ryuji into a pose he wants; or do a preliminary sketch.

Sooner or later, Ryuji will get bored, or mischievous, and start messing with Yusuke.

“Come on, man,” he’ll say, “It’s not  _ that _ big a deal. I mean, you can’t capture Makoto either. Or Ann. And they haven’t had  _ half _ as many sittings as me.”

The look in his eyes dares Yusuke to say it, to say  _ why _ he’s had as many sittings, dares Yusuke to admit that he is frustrated that he cannot draw the person who managed to snatch his heart first.

But Yusuke doesn’t say that. There is a forbidden word in these sessions, and that’s ‘love’; Yusuke might say it to the girls, might even, occasionally, darkly admit it to Akira, but he never says it to Ryuji, and neither of them quite know why.

Yusuke will eventually get frustrated; he’ll toss the camera on the bed or the sketchpad on the floor and hiss “Will you  _ shut up _ ?!” in an aggravated tone, one hand resting gently on Ryuji’s throat.

And every time ( _ just like last time, just like the first time, just like you always knew he would _ ) Ryuji will look daringly up into his eyes and whisper in a voice as sultry as anything Yusuke ever managed:

“Make me.”

  


**Akira**

There are no paintings of Akira at first. There are thumbnails, and the occasional sitting, but Yusuke cannot bring himself to carry through; he is never sure why. Instead, he paints self-portraits and stares at them for hours, as if searching for some reason as to why he has come to this.

In his portraits, Yusuke wears a yukata covered in eyes, as if he is all-seeing; or he is a black figure, but for hands scarlet with blood; or he is a Cubist guitar, painted apart into its pieces. 

One day he sits down and tries to paint out the thumbnail. It is Akira, sitting at the bar, dressed simply, one hand on a whiskey glass, staring out into space, face relaxed.

As the painting nears completing, he suddenly reaches out for white and red.

With two large strokes, he whites out Akira’s face and reddens his hands and stares blankly at the canvas, unsure of what he’s done.

Then, slowly, still unsure of what he’s doing, but  _ knowing _ that it feels  _ right _ , he slowly, delicately, paints two large white swoops behind Akira. Then another two. Then another two.

_ Wings _ .

With delicate, gentle touches, he reddens the wings; breaks them. Implies wounding. Adds details to the white and red.

Soon, Akira is a bandaged, wounded, fallen angel, hands bloody with sacrifice.

Yusuke stares sadly at the painting.

Then he covers it with canvas and hides it in the back.

With all his other mistakes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yusuke is unknowingly (or perhaps deliberately - draw your own conclusions) basing many of his portraits off of existing forms of art and existing paintings. Types of art, artists and work referenced in this chapter are, in order: the artform of perspective anamorphosis; Alphonse Mucha’s Flower and Savonnerie De Bagnolet; Artemisia Gentileschi’s Judith Slaying Holofernes and finally Pablo Picasso’s seated male nude.


	5. Ann

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She is their femme fatale, their beautiful one, leading men to their death every day. And like all good femme fatales, she has a reason: six of them, in fact.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the double-posting last time, guys, I accidentally managed to briefly post the Yusuke chapter twice, so sorry if you got super excited. Also, huge apologies for the long wait - I had what could be loosely described as a comedy of errors: having a seizure (gotta love that epilepsy) and throwing coffee over my laptop (which gave a good go of it before dying), then a week long migraine, and then finally getting my mum’s old desktop computer. It has not been a fun time.

**The Choir of Seraphim**

**Haru**

Some nights, it’s anger that drives her, as it was when they first started.

Anger at what happened to Shiho, anger at what Kamoshida did without repercussion, anger at the agony on Yusuke’s face.

Most of all, anger at how twisted with grief Haru became at the sight of her father’s refusal to change.

She lies naked, a lioness in the grass, or a cobra waiting to strike, anger buzzing in her veins as the mark runs a hand up her skin and _one-two_ , the poison needles under her nails find their mark - _one-two_ , Haru weeping, beautiful face twisted, _one-two_ , blood spattering across her hands and fingers, _one-two_ , Haru insisting _“no, he’s my father, i will do this”_ so beautiful and strong and miserable - and then the mark is dying and writhing and trying his hardest to lash out at her with weakening arms as she pushes him away.

“Hush, baby,” she whispers to the mark, “It will all be over soon,” and it is. It always is.

When the corpse is gone and the customers are starting to clear, Haru walks in. Ann is still nude, staring blankly at the wall, seeing a different time, a different person she whispered to.

Haru sits beside her and undoes her hair. She gets out the makeup remover and takes off the mask she wears on her skin. Even takes off her nail polish and earrings.

Only when Ann is fully naked before her does Haru turn Ann’s face toward her, so that Ann can look into Haru’s eyes, and Ann remembers holding Haru and -

She wets her lips. Haru tilts her head to one side, as if inviting a confidence.

Ann kisses her then, fiercely. Then again. And again. Haru meets her mouth with hers, and when it’s over Ann whispers briefly,

“I will never let anyone hurt you again.”

 

**Futaba**

It was one of Futaba’s bad days.

There were less of them, now, but they still happened - days when she would lock the door to her room and remain silent. Akira couldn’t coax her out, Ryuji couldn’t get a laugh, even Yusuke couldn’t annoy her out of her room.

So Ann, who knows that Futaba is always watching, goes to her room, sits down, and brings out a pad of paper and a pen.

In large, flowing words she writes,

_ARE YOU OKAY?_

And holds it up so that the cameras in the room can catch it.

In a moment there’s a buzz on her phone.

_everything is loud can’t take don’t like loud too loud can’t think can’t breathe._

Ann thinks for a moment. Then she runs through websites on her phone.

She isn’t smart, like Makoto. Not talented, like Yusuke. Not courageous, like Akira. But Ann, like Ryuji, is dogged; when she gets her teeth into something, she doesn’t stop.

She holds the card aloft again.

_CAN I COME IN? I THINK I HAVE SOMETHING FOR YOU._

There’s a very long pregnant pause.

Then her phone buzzes.

_if you get rid of everyone else first._

Ann almost laughs at that.

It takes ten minutes to get the men away from Futaba’s room, all of them vibrating with worry for their princess, but when they’re gone, Ann hears the unmistakeable click of the door lock opening.

She opens it and finds a sight that twists her heart.

Futaba on the bed, hair in disarray, face twisted, hands clamped over her ears, whimpering softly, eyes open just a fraction to capture changes on the monitors opposite.

Ann closes the door behind her, tiptoes in, then sets her phone down, and touches the white noise app she just downloaded. Slowly, the sound of the ocean begins to fill the room, drowning out the sound from outside. As it does, the pain on Futaba’s face slowly edges away, the lines smooth over, her body relaxes, and her eyes drift shut.

Within ten minutes, Ann is tucking Futaba into bed as she sleeps.

She finds a phone charger, plugs her phone in, and leaves the noise running.

She looks back one last time before she leaves at Futaba, now gentle in sleep, and her heart twists again.

 

**Makoto**

Makoto drives the flimsy paper umbrella into one of the gangster’s ears and the girl shrieks in pain; Ann grabs the one she just blinded, pulls her close and brings out the knife in her boot and touches the steel to the child’s ( _always a child they are such children_ ) throat.

“That’s not playing nice now, is it dear?” she whispers, “here we come, at the behest of your mistress, and you treat us like this?”

The girl - barely sixteen - whimpers in her grip.

“Would you like to bleed out on the floor?”

Beside her she feels a hiss of steel. Makoto has brought out a pistol, cupping it in both hands. From the corner of her eye, Ann admires the musculature of her arms, how the gun looks so perfect in her hands, as if it were a part of her. The lurid colors of the club suit Ann, but the shadows blend into Makoto. She wears no makeup, and Ann can make out the marks in her lower lip where Makoto has bitten and gnawed at the skin, and it makes her want to kiss Makoto all the more, for her beauty and her imperfection.

“Please don’t kill me,” whimpers the girl in Ann’s arms.

“What do you _want_ , monsters?” demands the imperious voice of the gang leader.

“You’ve been sniffing around our territory,” replies Ann, meeting the woman’s eyes, “We don’t like that. We prefer to be left alone.”

“Shinjuku has become more dangerous since you children started moving in,” replies the woman.

“There are less criminals as well,” sings out Ann, “Less rapists. Less pedophiles. We can also add less gangs to the peoples we want to remove. Less drug runners - that is _your_ speciality, isn’t it? Less pimps?”

The woman scowls.

“Here is the deal: we leave gangs alone because they are work, and because mostly, you abide by our rules; nothing to nobody underage. No rape. No trafficking. No useage of children in your gang wars. But if you start sniffing around trying to muscle us out, we can make no promises for your continued survival.”

“I should fear two girls?” sniffs the woman.

_Bang bang bang bang._

Four gang members drop dead from Makoto’s gun. The gang leader starts. All four of them had been in the shadows, eyes fixed on Ann. Ann smiles, charmingly, and allows her knife to slowly score the girl’s throat - just enough to scar, not enough to kill, and lets the blood run down her fingers.

“Yes.”

When they make it home, Ann runs her bloodied fingers along Makoto’s face and whispers to her,

“You are so, so beautiful. You have no idea.”

 

**Yusuke**

When she asks Yusuke to paint on her body, her first thought was that his reaction would be disgust, so she is surprised when his eyes light up and he fetches his paints.

The touch of his brush on her belly is a light tickle as he turns her into a living canvas, colors edging into one another, waterlilies dancing.

The moon darkens and reddens and bloats and darkens again down each of her thighs and her eyelashes flutter at his closeness.

He leans in to paint a flock of hummingbirds near her ear, his breath tickling her mouth. On the other side of her face, he has painted leopard dots and fur, gliding down to touch her mouth and nose.

His eyes are alight and alive as he so rarely is these days, cut off, transformed into something _not_ \- she so rarely sees this side of Yusuke, the Yusuke that died when he cut out Madarame’s heart, and it makes her wonder if, when he paints her, he sees the girl that existed before Shiho jumped.

Geometric patterns run their way up one arm; depictions of sakura, both realistic and abstract run down the other. Her uses his smallest brush to paint a whirlwind of butterflies on each hand, then steps back and takes photos of her standing there, hands open, as if to receive his heart.

Her eyes are brimming over, but she can’t - _won’t_ \- cry. He made this choice, the same as them.

When he is down, she reaches out and smears a hand of paint down the side of his face, looking deeply into those dark eyes, as if she could save him from what they’ve all become, and then kisses him deeply.

When she pulls away, he is Yusuke again; not the child she remembers, but the shadow in the dark who protects her. The glint in his eye is gone, the sparkle dead. He tosses her robe at her, turns away, and coldly tells her to get out.

It’s only when she’s in the shower, watching the paint go down the drain, that she lets herself cry. Not for how coldly her treated her - he’s cold to all of them, sooner or later, in spite of his pretty words and lovely bed manner - but for the boy she saw in those eyes, for the boy he might have been.

She never cries for him again.

 

**Ryuji**

“Hey there, _Mistress_ ,” mocks Ryuji, after the body-painting debacle.

“What do you want?” asks Ann.

“You forget I can read you _juuuust_ fine,” replies Ryuji, “What, upset our little painter doesn’t wanna play your games?”

“Oh, shut up, Ryuji!” snaps Ann, “That’s _not_ why I’m upset!”

They’re in the kitchen, Ryuji drinking coffee heaped with cream and sugar, Ann still in a bathrobe, hair wet, looking for something sweet to drink in the fridge, hair in a towel.

“Oh, _sure_. I think you just get grumpy because Yusuke doesn’t like being chased.”

“That’s _not_ it!” snarls Ann, turning…

...to face a pair of dangerously dark eyes. Ryuji has one arm by her head and is pinning her with just the intensity of his stare. Gently, his hand comes up and removes the towel holding her hair up, letting the damp, blonde locks fall to her shoulders.

“Oh?” he says, in a low voice, “Then what is it?”

Ann swallows. On the one hand, she _hates_ showing vulnerability to anyone, let _alone_ Ryuji. On the other hand, Ryuji is the only one she trusts to understand.

“It’s just...when he was painting he looked...innocent. And we...stole that.” It sounds lame, pathetic even. She can’t meet his eyes.

Ryuji leans over, so his lips are at her ear, sending a tiny thrill down her spine.

“He looks that way when he _fucks_ , too.”

“ _Ryuji_!” she gasps, scandalised.

“Don’t pretend you weren’t wondering,” he hisses in her ear.

“I…” she feels more naked than when Yusuke painted her, looking away from Ryuji’s snapping dark eyes, and feels him take the opportunity to come closer, his nearness making her nerves fizzle and snap. He pushes her damp hair off her face and leans right into her ear, so that she can feel each warm breath he takes, and she shudders, not unpleasantly.

“Does it _eat you up_ that _I_ know, and you don’t, _Lady_ Ann?” he whispers in her ear.

“You’re so vulgar,” she says, but there’s no heat in it, just like there’s no heat in his sneer, “I just meant...I sometimes...I sometimes regret it.”

The silence echoes between them.

Ryuji kisses her cheek then, gentle and chaste, an apology for his nastiness. Ann looks at him, and Ryuji rests his forehead against hers, and with a quiet sob, Ann wraps her arms around his neck as Ryuji pulls her close.

“I know, love,” he whispers, all rancor and facades gone, “I know.”

 

**Akira**

If Ann is honest - and she is never honest, except sometimes with Ryuji - Ann has maybe loved Akira since she first laid eyes on him, with his goofy glasses and messy hair. She still remembers when she was a kid, too, and kept wondering what his dark hair would feel like to touch.

Then she met Haru, and fell in a kind of love with her, and somewhere along the way, the three of them reached an Arrangement - through trial and error and a couple of drunken discussions - that emerges as their current triad.

She still remembers, how the first time she had to seduce a target, she scraped her skin raw in the shower; how Akira walked in when he heard her sobs; how he followed her into the shower, soaking his clothes, and bundled her up in his arms, and how she met his eyes, dark with just a tinge of red, and he rolled a thumb along her lower lip and whispered,

“You are so beautiful, Ann. So very, very beautiful.”

And then he kissed her forehead, and her nose and gently her mouth, and she shuddered, felt a little more of her sanity ebb to wherever sanity goes when it dies, looked him in the eye and nodded, before clawing at his wet clothes and taking him in the shower.

In the club, she sits at his side, feeling his fingers in her hair, or on the back of her neck, and her soul sings.

This is her home. Where she belongs.

And she will savage herself to keep it safe it that is what is needed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Futaba is suffering from noise sensitivity, where sounds provoke or worsen an anxiety attack. I’m basing this off my own experience, please don’t take this as read and see someone if your anxiety attacks involve noises getting louder or more upsetting. Also, before you ask, yes, I have anxiety, epilepsy and migraines. My genetic lottery was a bust.


	6. Ryuji

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ryuji is their guard, their first line of defense; but deep inside, he is still the sweet little boy who just wanted to help his mama. Maybe that’s why he oscillates between defensive and loving.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a surprisingly hard time writing this chapter. When I realized that Ryuji - regardless of how angry, bitter or twisted he became - would always still be the sweet little boy inside, I suddenly felt I understood him a lot better and the tone of the chapter changed significantly.
> 
> Also, just Akira's chapter left, and that will have a preview for the next story in the sequence "The Paths of Glory". See you then!

**The Choir of Cherubim**

 

**Haru**

They’re at the shooting range today.

Ever since her assault by her fiancé, Haru has been meticulous in learning to fire guns, and Ryuji has been learning alongside her.

Feet planted, handgun cupped in her tiny hands, eyes cold behind her perspex glasses, she is firing steadily - then erratically.

He can tell, just from the set of her mouth, what she is thinking.  _ Who _ she is thinking of.

She only thinks of one man, long dead, at the firing range.

He comes up behind her quietly, and wraps his arms around her as she prepares another round of ammunition. She starts, and then relaxes.

They can’t talk, here, but he just cups her hands, holds her body steady, gives her something to brace against; and then she fires, steady once more, aim perfect.

As they are leaving, smelling of cordite and gunpowder, she clasps her hands and bows.

“I’m sorry, Ryuji.”

“Don’t be,” he says, “You were thinking of your dad, right?”

She starts, and then smiles, a little wetly.

“Yes,” she says, “Something like that.”

They walk along, him a sullen streak of darkness, her a bright pastel flower.

“And you?” she asks abruptly, “What do you think of at the shooting range?”

_ Leg broke beneath him, Kamoshida’s laughing face, Shiho falling and falling like a rag doll, the bruises along Mishima’s skin, the way Ann’s mouth tightened… _

His mouth flickers, almost a ghost of an attempt at a smile, and he swallows.

“Nothing,” he says, voice strange to his ears, “Absolutely nothing.”

Haru smiles, and takes his hand.

“Okay,” she replies gently, in a tone that says she doesn’t believe the lie for a second.

They return home in silence for the rest of the trip.

 

**Futaba**

“Hey, Futaba,” he calls, slightly distracted, “I brought you some snacks. I thought we could watch  _ Genkiganger _ …”

His voice falters as he walks into her room and finds her frozen at her computer, expression clearly screaming that she’s done something wrong, or at the very least, not permissable.

“What did you do?” he asks, folding his arms.

“Nothing!” she stammers, waving her hands.

Ryuji sighs, then strides forward, grasps her chair and wheels it out of the way to show her screen.

It’s photos. Of him.  _ Younger _ .

The sight is slightly startling. His face isn’t shadowed. He’s  _ smiling _ . Some of them are even before -  _ Kamoshida _ \- so his stance is good, and his hair is brown, not bleached.

The difference on the screen between the child he was and the man he is is almost frightening. The child looks calm, eager, passionate; like he has a whole life ahead of him, filled with nothing but expectations of joy. Even in the photos where his hair is bleached, and his face is sullen, there is nothing of the ambient violence that surrounds Ryuji.

He checks where she found them. Facebook. Figures.

“Huh,” is all he says. Then. “Make sure you delete ‘em when you’re done.”

He notices, as he leaves, that there is something akin to heartbreak in her eyes. He tries to tell himself it doesn’t matter, or bother him.

He’s always had a hard time lying to himself.

Which is why, just before he steps out the door, he tosses over his shoulder - 

“If it matters to you, you can keep a few. Just get ‘em off the ‘net.”

Something small and hard slams into his back and a takes a second before he realizes it’s Futaba, clinging onto him, arms wrapped around him, muffling her sobs in his leather jacket.

“I’m sorry, Futa-chan. I didn’t mean to make you cry.”

“You...stupid... _ boy _ …!” she chokes out.

After a little while, Ryuji reluctantly lifts an arm, and Futaba snuggles in under it, tears soaking his shirt. At least this way, he can get her glasses off her, and gently wipe away the tears off her face that slowly leak into her hair.

 

**Makoto**

He’d never admit it to Makoto - or to anyone, really - but part of him wonders if, maybe, Makoto would rather he romanced her the way Akira romances Haru and Ann. If she’d stop being so nervy about her appearance if one day he swooped in and dipped her like Yusuke dips Haru, if he maybe got her dressed up and took her out to dinner, rather than just allowed the Arrangement to dictate their behavior.

He’s so caught up one day in thinking about what he’s gonna say to Makoto and how he’s gonna say it and how he’ll make her react one day that he totally misses the plot of three anime episodes he’s watching with Futaba, who notices his zoning out and pokes him in the side.

“Ow! Futa-chan!”

“What is  _ up _ with you?” she demands.

“...nothing. Do you know Makoto’s size?”

Futaba blinks at him owlishly.

“Uh, yeah. Why?”

He suddenly realizes what he wants to ask (“What sort of dress would she look good in?”) and feels awkward. Futaba raises an eyebrow.

“Whaaaaaaat?”

“Never mind,” he mutters.

He’s still trying to wrap his head around what to get her - or what to say - when Yusuke bursts in, and normally Ryuji is all for half-naked Yusuke bursting in in a fit of artistic pique, flushed and damp from the shower, but right now it just adds to his despair.

“ _ I have completed yet another masterpiece _ !” declares Yusuke, and this would normally be cause for Ryuji to taunt Yusuke and some incredibly wonderful flirting and maybe more but  _ now _ it just reminds Ryuji of everything  _ he can’t be _ for Makoto so he just makes a weird noise in the back of his throat and slinks off, missing the baffled and disappointed look on Yusuke’s face.

Somehow his feet lead him to the garage, where Makoto is in shorts and a singlet and pounding a bag, flushed and happy in her element, and Ryuji’s heart and all the pretty words he had planned just melt in his throat.

Makoto, sweaty and beaming, spots him, and she never looks so happy as when she’s working out, and Ryuji suddenly feels oddly protective of his time with her; that this is the time when she is happy, and that  _ he _ is the one who gets to see it.

“Spar with me?” she asks, slightly flirtatiously, and Ryuji takes two steps forward, kisses her full on the mouth for a heartbeat, and replies, “Always.”

 

**Yusuke**

One morning, they’re lying tangled in bedsheets together, Yusuke’s hair tickling Ryuji’s cheek, when Ryuji says, almost conversationally,

“You know, it’s kind of bullshit.”

“Hmm?” Yusuke still sounds sleepy, arms wrapped around Ryuji, chest to his back, his lips hovering over Ryuji’s ear.

“How you talk to me. How I talk to you. How you never  _ say _ it.”

“Say what?” and now Ryuji can hear the thundercloud rumble in Yusuke’s voice, the one that says, implicitly,  _ this is not for discussion _ .

“You  _ know _ what I mean.”

“Mmm,” is all Yusuke replies, before nuzzling at the soft spot under Ryuji’s ear, knowing how sensitive he is there.

“Uh-uh. You’re not distracting me,” replies Ryuji, twisting around to face Yusuke, and he’s startled by how surprised and - hurt? - Yusuke looks. “You tell all the girls the pretty lies they want to hear…”

“Nonsense, I tell Ann no such things.”

“You do when you want to paint her.”

“Okay, with Ann I lie a bit.”

“You feed Haru all  _ sorts _ of bullshit…”

“Nonsense, everything I say is true.”

“Oh, so then you’ll tell  _ Haru _ you love her but with me it’s just insults?”

Yusuke freezes in place. His eyes skitter off Ryuji’s face.

“That’s...different.”

“How?”

“I...I mean…”

“Just say it. Just because we  _ started _ one way doesn’t mean we have to  _ continue _ that way.”

“I don’t…want to... _ hurt _ you…” and Ryuji knows Yusuke well enough to read between the lines: his love for the girls is different; Haru is his princess to cuddle and cherish; Ann his imperfect muse; Makoto his project; Futaba his younger sister. Even his adoration for Akira is cool, distant, impersonal, like all his other relationships.

Because Yusuke is their dark assassin as well as their artist.

Yusuke doesn’t want Ryuji too attached.

Yusuke is going to have to harden the fuck up, in Ryuji’s opinion.

Ryuji fists a hand in Yusuke’s hair and kisses him deeply, all teeth and lips and mouth, before hissing out, “ _ I love you _ .”

He hears Yusuke’s breath catch, his eyes wide.

The silence that looms between them is deafening.

 

**Ann**

“How’d the night’s hunting go?” he asks casually the next morning.

“Fine,” she says, but he picks up the tone of pain and remembers abruptly that she chose, for once, to sleep in her own bed, unusual after a night of playing the femme fatale.

“Sit down,” he says instantly, turning from where the coffee percolator is brewing, and then freezing where he stands.

“It’s nothing,” she says, drawing her silk dressing gown tighter.

“ _ Sit. Down _ ,” he hisses, before going and grabbing the first aid kit, as well as the various medicines they have stored under the bench.

She sighs and sits, the bruises on her throat vivid as a bouquet of violets. Ryuji sits himself next to her and starts applying the arnica across her throat, ignoring her winces.

“You idiot,” he tells her, “Why didn’t you get me or Makoto to look at you last night?”

“I just...I wanted to sleep,” she mutters.

“Not good enough,” he snaps, ignoring how she flinches, “No way you slept well with this lot troubling you.”

Her eyes are wet.

“I’m so weak, Ryuji,” she murmurs, “The whole time it was happening, I just wanted it to stop. You wouldn’t have felt like that. Neither would Makoto. You’d, you’d  _ do _ something. I wanted...to learn to just  _ sit _ with my pain.”

“Dumbass,” Ryuji retorts, “There’s absolutely no need for you to be in pain. How’s it feel to speak?”

“Painful,” she admits.

“Tea with honey will fix that,” Ryuji says, “And you’re not weak for wanting pain to be over. What, how do you think I felt when my leg broke? I wanted it over, too.”

“You were a kid,” says Ann, reaching out to stroke Ryuji’s face.

“Still am, Ann,” replies Ryuji, stroking her hair. “Now, did Yusuke kill the asshole, or do I need to break some bones?”

She laughs wetly, and buries her face into his shoulder.

 

**Akira**

“Ryuji,” he’d said that morning after Ryuji finished patching up Ann, “He got away. Want to help me?”

And of course the answer was yes. In Ryuji’s books, people who bruise Ann are one step below maggots. He doesn’t think of her  _ that way _ \- hard to think  _ that way _ about someone you used to see pick their nose in middle school - but Ryuji loves Ann, like he loves Akira. They fill the parts of him that are missing or broken.

So Ryuji and Akira track down the asshole, hiding out in the church in Kanda, and out of respect for the priest, they wait for him to exit before grabbing the jerk and dragging him to a side alley. Akira rolls his sleeves up and punches him, over and over, until the skin on his knuckles gives way and starts to bleed, and it’s at this point Ryuji decides enough is enough.

“Boss,” he says to Akira, touching him lightly on the shoulder. “You’ve done enough. Go home.”

The two share a look, and part of Ryuji, clinically, thinks that maybe the unhinged, wild look in Akira’s eyes ought to worry him, but no, it doesn’t.

Because Ryuji recognizes it.

It is the beast inside Haru that howls at the shooting range.

It is the child inside Futaba that searches for happy endings and sobs brokenly when she finds none.

It is the reason Makoto only looks happy in violence.

It is the darkness inside Yusuke that prevents him from ever speaking the truth they both know.

It is what made Ann call herself weak when she suffers deeper than all of them.

And it is what makes Ryuji do this.

Akira leaves, pulling his gloves on clinically. The asshole is a bloody mess, and Ryuji takes the time to pull on his own gloves and a mask, before calmly, coldly shooting him.

There’s a dumpster nearby; it will serve Ryuji’s purpose as he heads to his car, where the plastic bath and the bottles of lye and water are kept.

-

Ryuji comes home in the early hours of the morning, weary and longing for a shower to remove the scent of lye and bone ash from his skin and hair.

After a long shower, as well as dumping those clothes of his that aren’t pockmarked with acid burns in the washing machine, he stops by Akira’s room. He’s not surprised to hear swearing; Akira has always had a knack for utter failure when it comes to patching himself up.

“Need a hand?” he calls.

“...yeah,” he hears, the pause telling him all he needs to know. Akira has his pride too.

Ryuji sits with him, with cotton pads, antiseptics and bandages, and redoes all the dressings. Part of him wants to demand Akira doesn’t do that to himself again.

Part of him knows it’s pointless, so he says nothing.

When he’s done, he looks up, and Akira looks vulnerable. Tired. Worn down.

“Did I do the right thing, Ryuji?” he asks, and it’s such a spectacularly pointless question, Ryuji almost laughs. Of course he did. He always has.

Instead of answering, Ryuji lifts the bandaged hand up and presses a gentle kiss to each battered, scarred, worn, bleeding knuckle, and that says everything that could be said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lye and water will indeed dissolve pretty much a whole body (it is the favored method of disappearing bodies by the cartel and serial killers for a good many number of years), but I'd really recommend not doing it for the very simple reason that it's an exothermic reaction and you will probably hurt yourself rather badly. Ryuji, clearly, has no fucks to give.


	7. Akira

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was his kingdom, his land. And this is his family. He will die to protect them, even as he walks them to hell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There’s an awkward moment where I, white girl with only a very basic understanding of Japanese, attempt to grapple with Japanese pronouns. I don’t actually know what Japanese pronouns Ryuji or Yusuke use (I assume, based on personality and translation, respectively ‘ore’ and ‘watashi’) so I tried to be a bit vague - I think it came out rather clumsy, so apologies. If someone can give me chapter and verse on their pronoun useage, I’d be grateful.  
> I'm also not overly happy with how this chapter came out, so I'd appreciate constructive feedback in general.

**The Choir of Principalities**

**Haru**

It is sunset, and the sky is stained vivid shades of red and pink as Akira climbs the fire escape to the roof.

Beneath, in Yusuke’s studio, he can hear what sounded like a fierce argument between Yusuke and Ryuji, the words incoherent but tones clear; Yusuke’s low and rumbling, Ryuji’s high and jangling. Oh dear. He hopes everything is okay…

At that point, the words are interrupted by a crash, and then Yusuke, in an outraged tone,

“ _ HOW DARE YOU _ ?!”

“Oh no,” says a merry voice, “I think Ryuji just threw a pot of paint at Yusuke.”

Akira lifts his head to see Haru, smiling, skin and hair dyed orange by the light of the sky. In her tied up blouse and scuffed jeans, streaked with dirt and sweat, she looks magnificent, surrounded by the peaflowers and roses.

“What are they arguing about?” Akira asks, swinging himself onto the roof.

Haru holds a finger to her lips and winks, eyes sparkling with mischief.

“Secret.”

Akira raises an eyebrow, and gently takes a wrist to pull her into his arms.

“Mmmm?” he says, kissing at her ear and tugging at the earlobe with his teeth until she makes a soft noise of surrender.

“Okaaaaay,” she purrs, “Ryuji is upset that Yusuke won’t say the word.”

There is a moment as Akira processes what Haru has said.

“Won’t say the…” Outrage on his friend’s behalf makes Akira start to squawk in a deeply unmanly fashion, “They’ve been  _ buggering _ like  _ teenagers _ for nigh-on  _ ten years _ and Yusuke _ still _ won’t tell the bastard he  _ loves him _ ?!”

Haru bursts into hysterical cackles, half-collapsed against Akira’s chest. Beneath them, Yusuke and Ryuji continue to argue. Up drifts Ryuji’s voice - “YOU KNOW WHAT I WANNA SAY TO THE WINNER OF THE LUXEMBOURG ART PRIZE?!?!?”

Akira winces, as Haru shifts in his arms.

“I should probably do something about that,” he says, looking out over the city. As the sun sets, in the strange half-light of twilight, where everything looks dimmed and otherly, the city begins to resemble nothing so much as a haphazard pile of corpses, rotting in the dimness, with Haru’s tiny rooftop garden looking strange and eerie against the backdrop.

“Later, love,” whispers Haru, “Now why did you come up here?”

“Time’s getting on,” replies Akira softly. The argument beneath them has halted for the moment; in the orange-tinted corpse of the city, they could be the only two left alive, “You and I should get ready for tonight.”

Haru sighs.

“Will we move on soon?” she asks.

“Eventually, love,” promises Akira, kissing first one eyelid, then the next, “Eventually.”

 

**Futaba**

It’s around noon, after a particularly stressful series of events - police apparently snooping around on a missing persons case, and Akira had to some sweet talking to get them to leave, while Futaba desperately hacked into their police files to divert their interest away.

So, bundling up her favorite snacks, Akira goes to check on her.

She’s asleep, hair splayed around her face, curled in on herself, fingers twitching, as if in her dreams she still types, still hunts, still searches.

He smiles fondly, sets the bag of snacks nearby, and gently strokes her hair. Like a kitten, she nestles into the touch unconsciously, and when he removes his hand, the frown between her eyebrows is gone, and her sleep is more peaceful.

Curious, he checks her PC. Unusually, nothing is running at the moment so he can see her background; a mashup of photos of everyone; moments where they are caught relaxed, smiling, laughing, looking normal.

It’s almost enough to make Akira cry.

He hears something pad into the room.

“Oh, you made an appearance again, did you?” he asks, turning to face the feral cat that is his sometime-companion.

It meows, though the tone is low and almost guttural.

“Well, keep an eye on her; make sure she doesn’t hurt herself.”

The cat jumps up and curls at the girls feet, and if Akira notices the odd shudder than runs through her body at the touch of the animals’ fur, he ignores it.

 

**Makoto**

He is waiting at the bar when Makoto and Haru return from throwing bodies away, and when he sees the high flush on both their faces, he has to suppress an eyeroll. Haru, sweet, delicate, sensitive Haru, seems to have a knack for making all the women in his life go mad with desire.

Not that he’s  _ complaining _ , mind you - he’s her partner, not her jailer, and they all sorted this jealousy nonsense out years ago - but the predictability of it is a little amusing after a while.

Haru notices the eyeroll and just tosses him a flirty look over her shoulder that makes him shake his head ruefully.

Makoto, on the other hand, blushes fiercely, blood still vivid on her normally pale face.

“C’mere,” says Akira, motioning her over to the bar, and getting out a handkerchief.

“I am perfectly capable of washing my own face,” Makoto tells him.

“I know you are, but I like to do this for you. You know, if that’s okay, Queen,” he says, with a grin.

“Only Ryuji can call me that, and that’s because I kick his ass.”

“I don’t want to know what else you kick,” muttered Akira as he wiped the still damp blood off her face.

“I heard that.”

“You were meant to.”

She glares at him for a moment, eyes vivid and dark.

Then she smiles, and suddenly laughs, girlish and clear and bright, before wrapping her arms around his neck in an abrupt hug, and dashing off somewhere.

Akira pauses for a long moment, staring solemnly at the bloodstained piece of cloth he holds. Then he lets it fall into the trash, carrying the moment of brightness and the memory of Makoto’s sudden laughter with it.

 

**Yusuke**

“I am in no mood to talk today,” says Yusuke, crisp, back to the door, “ _ Especially _ if you have come to convince me to apologize to that uncultured  _ animal _ .”

“I see I’ve been caught out,” replies Akira, leaning against the doorframe to Yusuke’s studio, “I  _ love _ what you’ve done with the place.”

The comment achieves exactly what Akira wants, which is to get Yusuke to turn and face him, eyes blazing.

The studio is normally divided into three areas: ‘art space’, which is something akin to organized chaos; ‘living space’ which is almost fanatically clean; and the ‘posing arena’, where Yusuke gets his models to stand and lit, which is a tangle of wires and lighting and usually has at least one painting set up even if only with mannequins. There’s a backroom where Yusuke keeps his completed paintings or ‘failures’ - the ones he sells on; the paintings he personally wants to keep are hung around the room, as are strings of photos and sketch ideas.

Today, there is no organization or fanatical cleanliness: it’s havoc; paint has been splashed all over the floor and walls; lights knocked down; there is glass over the floor and blood too, trod in by Yusuke’s bare feet. Cutlery and bowls have been smashed. The strings of photos and sketches have been knocked to the floor. The only things untouched are Yusuke’s artwork; the havoc and mayhem carefully have left them be, and that alone makes Akira wonder at Ryuji’s self control.

All in all, it looks as if Yusuke and Ryuji had one hell of an argument.

“Do not  _ taunt _ me so,” snarls Yusuke, “My studio will never regain its former composure!” And it takes a strong amount of willpower from Akira to not roll his eyes. He loves Yusuke dearly, but Yusuke’s histrionics have always been the sticking point between the two of them, and the reason they never made it past ‘brotherly love’. Ryuji, he knows, finds it endearing; Akira finds it rather trying.

Instead, Akira settles with a smile.

“Do you need help getting everything back in order? I have time.”

“I would prefer to ruminate on my failures,” mumbles Yusuke, and that tells Akira  _ far _ more than the trashed studio.

“Look, at least get off your feet and let me sweep; I don’t want you getting sepsis from stepping on broken glass.”

Yusuke’s face now looks transformed, and it’s an expression Akira hasn’t seen in years; a strange, open vulnerability.

Like a dreamer, Yusuke settles on the bed, still staring at his hands, while Akira cleans up all the wreckages, takes notes of what will need replacing (and mentally winces and steels himself for  _ that _ argument with Makoto).

When he’s done, the studio isn’t back to its former glory, but it’s tidy. With this done, Akira settles himself at Yusuke’s feet with a bowl of water, antiseptic, tweezers and some bandages, and starts to remove the shards of glass in his feet before binding them up.

It’s only halfway through that Akira realizes Yusuke is weeping silently, the tears falling down his cheeks, and into Akira’s hair, like rain.

 

**Ann**

She lies in bed, the bruises on her throat faded, but still far too vivid for his liking. She wears just a silk negligee, and the vivid white lights from outside glow harshly through the window onto her skin.

“Are you okay?” asks Akira, brushing her hair off her forehead. She smiles, a little, turning her face up to him.

“Between you, Haru and Ryuji, I’ve got more than enough nursemaids,” she jokes.

“Only us three?” says Akira.

“Oh, the others have been in, but they’re far less nurse-y about it,” says Ann, “Futaba made me watch anime with her. Makoto went and got me flowers from market. Yusuke brought me a sketch he had of me reading and kissed me. I’m not even  _ sick _ . I’m  _ fine _ .”

“No,” says Akira, kissing her on the crown, “You’re not. All of us can see how rattled you are, dearest. Let us take care of you for a while; when you’re better, Haru will show you how to work behind the bar.”

“But who will protect you?” asks Ann, eyes wide.

“You can still do that,” says Akira, putting into words what he’s been thinking for a long time, “But this time, without any clothes coming off.”

“But I…” Ann sounds torn.

“There’s no shame, Ann,” says Akira, “You’re not Makoto or Haru or Ryuji, and that’s fine. No one  _ wants _ you to be like them. We all love you as you are.”

She smiles faintly, in spite of the tears leaking out of her eyes.

“I really am fine,” she says, “They’re just bruises.”

“I know, love,” says Akira, “But you’re our lovely one; we like to protect Futaba, spoil Haru, embarrass Makoto, and infuriate you. And we hate to see any of you hurt. Now get some rest; you’ll need it, once you start under Haru.”

Her eyelashes flutter shut, like a butterfly coming to rest.

“If you...insist…” she mumbles.

His hand rests, for a moment, on her throat, and he swallows past the inclination to cry.

 

**Ryuji**

“No Makoto today?” asks Akira.

Trying To Fix Yusuke And Ryuji’s Relationship, Part Two. It already looks bad, given that when Akira asked Makoto why she wasn’t at the garage first thing in the morning as was her usual practice, she just sighed heavily. Never a good sign.

Given Ryuji’s single-minded focus on attempting to beat the living shit out of the bag he’s hung up, Akira is not anticipating a peaceful resolution.

“Dude, whatever you’re planning, whatever manipulation you’re plotting, I’m just gonna say: not in the mood. Not today.”

At least Ryuji is less openly hostile than Yusuke, but then Ryuji is Akira’s blood-brother; if he’s going to open up to anyone who isn’t Makoto, it’ll be him.

So Akira doesn’t say anything, just goes and stands next to the bag as Ryuji takes out his frustration, and waits.

Eventually, Ryuji either gets tired of the waiting game, or he decides he’s worked out enough of his frustrations for the morning, because he suddenly turns to Akira.

“Want ramen? Okibugo?” Akira nods. “Cool. Let me have a shower and get dressed and we’ll go.”

-

They’re having ramen now, and between Ryuji’s button-up shirt and Akira’s suit jacket, they look almost respectable, but Akira can read the message in how Ryuji’s dressed; he’s thinking of Yusuke. His hand keeps absently going to the spot on his shoulder where Yusuke first started what became his sleeves, and his pronouns keep drifting away from his usual, casual-to-the-point-of-rudeness pronouns to Yusuke’s formal pronouns. Given Ryuji’s never been formal in his life, Akira can hear it in his voice; so just goes ahead and asks.

“Have you two talked since the fight?”

Ryuji starts, and his mouth twists.

“No...we’ve just been kind of avoiding each other. When we have it’s been...you know. Icy. I really don’t wanna talk about it.”

Akira suppresses the urge to throttle his best friend, and takes another tack.

“How are things with you and Makoto?”

Ryuji starts again, surprised by the change in topic, then sighs heavily.

“Yeah, we got into a fight. She was angry with me for fighting with Yusuke. Then she was angry with me for not saying it to  _ her _ , and I didn’t want to be a hypocrite and, you know, I  _ do _ , so I did. Then she started crying on me and I’m...not really good with that so I just, you know, hugged her and she smacked me one and told me to try and make it up with Yusuke.”

There’s a pause, and Akira can’t help it; he starts laughing.

“Hey man, what the hell?” snaps Ryuji.

“Sorry,” chuckles Akira, “Just...you. You and your lovers are one tangled web. It’s kind of endearing.”

Ryuji smiles a little, at that.

“Yeah, I know. I just…” Ryuji sighs, rubs the back of his neck.

“Do you really  _ need _ him to say it?” asks Akira.

“No!” says Ryuji. “...Yes. I don’t know.”

The two finish their ramen.

“Look, I’ll...try and make it up to him. I dunno. I just…” he sighs. “Dumbass painter boy.”

“You only call him that when you miss him,” comments Akira.

Ryuji chuckles darkly, and swipes a cuff at Akira, who laughs, and the two laugh and chuckle and wrestle their way home, as if nothing has changed since they were fifteen years old.

 

**Coda**

_ Somewhere else in Tokyo… _

It is in an archival room. The lights above are harsh white tones and buzz shrilly as two figures walk down the stacks.

“I have to say, I was surprised to hear that you’d transferred to Tokyo,” says the taller figure.

“There were a variety of factors that facilitated the move,” replies the shorter one.

“Such as you wanting to tackle cold cases now? Isn’t that a downgrade?” The taller figure drags a stepladder over with a screech and starts climbing it to start rifling through a series of stacks.

“Say I wanted a change of scenery then. As did my partner,” the shorter one is smiling, it’s in their voice.

“This isn’t scenery, it’s a  _ morgue _ ,” snarks the figure rifling through the cases. “Why transfer here? You’re good, but nobody is  _ this _ good.”

“There is a specific reason. The Phantom Thieves case.”

“God, do you  _ know _ how many people have tried to tackle that case? Do you know what’s  _ happened _ to them?”

“Nervous breakdowns, mostly, from what I understand. What was the Phantom Thieves’ last activity?”

“Nervous breakdowns and public scandals. That case is  _ cursed _ , I swear. Their last activity was the globalized murder of Masayoshi Shido.”

“I asked to be transferred because I don’t think that’s the case.”

The taller figure paused as they picked up a file and turned, slowly, to the smaller figure.

“Pardon?”

“Crime rate overall in Shinjuku has fallen since the murder of Shido, yet bodies continue to filter in at an alarming rate. Isn’t that an interesting statistic?”

“You think they’re still active.”

“I think they’re still active and I’m going to find them.”

The taller figure sighs, climbs down the stepladder and hands a manilla folder, thick with photographs and reports, to the shorter figure.

“Well, if anyone can do it, it’s you, Shirogane-san.”

Naoto smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that’s His Unseen Choirs! I mentioned at the start that I was drawn by the Choirs’ purposes, rather than their hierarchy, so here is how I set them up (for those of you curious): Haru as Powers had the theme of supervision and protection on the small scale; Futaba as Virtues had the theme of miracles; Makoto as the Thrones had the theme of heroism and warriors; Yusuke as the Ophanim had the theme of vision; Ann as the Seraphim had the theme of beauty and love; Ryuji as the Cherubim had the theme of guardianship and defence; and Akira as a Principality had the theme of conquest and ownership.  
> Yes, “The Paths of Glory” is going to be a P4 crossover, and yes, there are still no Personas. I wonder how that will work out for the Investigation Team...


End file.
